Dust In The Wind
by bouncingball67
Summary: Sam once again marvels at how ironic it is the way a song can reflect the perfect mood on any situation. Episodic: Heart


You once again marvel at how ironic it is the way a song can reflect the perfect mood on any situation.

This time… there's no AC/DC or Zeppelin that can calm your nerves, but Kansas. Good old Kansas… also the place where you were born. Where your mother died… where your story began.

So you listen to the lyrics as you sit in the passenger seat of your brother's car, silently listening to your own heart beat against your chest, the rhythm thrumming along in time to the beat of the music and the steady thu-thump of the tires running over the wooden planks of a bridge. And you can't help but wish the sound would go away. That the tires would stop moving, the radio stop playing, and your heart stop beating. Because you failed. You are a monster. You failed.

Your brother is speaking now. You try to listen to what he says, but you find yourself staring out the window instead. Watching the railing of the bridge swing past your vision. Looking out into the water, you watch its dark outline move to the beat of your heart and the movement of the car, silently beckoning you to come and join it. It would be peaceful… following the current as it leads you back to where you came from…

It's talking to you… telling you what you could have done. But the water forgives you… it tells you everything will be fine… that all your pain will go away.

Your brother is talking again. This time your own name is on his lips. But you don't answer. You focus your mind on the song. It's perfect. Just the right amount of sadness… but at the same time, the melody is comforting… almost leading you to believe what you did was for good.

Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea. All we do crumbles to the ground though we refuse to see. Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.

You feel something wet drip onto your hands that are clasped in your lap. And you realize after a moment that the wetness is your own tears, running down your face and down your chin.

Don't hang on. Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky. It slips away and all your money won't another minute buy. Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.

You can't control it anymore. The sudden feeling of self-loathing engulfs you and you wonder how you ever lived knowing what horrible creature you were to become. You feel the tears flow hot down your cheeks, reminding you of who you really are; a coward, a failure, a murderer.

You slam your hand into the radio to make it stop playing. It disgusts you. You wipe furiously at the tears on your cheeks, trying in vain to wipe away the dirt that's streaked across your body. The black paint that colors your soul and the unseen blood on your hands. It mocks you as you rub at the impurities, and they won't remove themselves.

You glare at the dashboard. And when the car stops by a random motel you get out of the car and slam the door, hearing your brother hiss as you abuse his car. You don't care in the least. Before you know it, you are by the counter of the motel reception desk handing the lady a credit card. You don't even check the name on the card to see who he was supposed to be. The lady stares at you, at the tears on your cheeks and at the look on your face. You think to yourself, let her stare. I don't care. And you push it forcefully out of your mind.

Once that ordeal is over you throw yourself into the bathroom of the tiny room you were assigned, hearing your brother follow you. But you ignore him and lock the door, then turn on the tap, making it as hot as it will go. As the bathroom steams up you undress and step under the scorching spray. You cry out from the pain before you can stop yourself, but you don't care. You let the burning water scorch away your sins, and drown your self-hate.

But before it washes away the dirt on your soul, you feel a sting on your lower back. As you reach around to feel the wound irritated by the extreme temperature of the water, you find yourself tracing the same patterns on your own skin that Madison did the night before. Memories of that night surface on your tired brain and you find yourself doubled over, kneeling on the floor of the shower, unable to take what the memories bring.

You manage to turn the water off before you stumble out of the shower and throw the contents of your stomach into the toilet before your knees even hit the ground. You miss slightly and feel the vomit hit the seat and splash back against your face. You choke and continue to empty your stomach into the toilet.

You feel the burning trails of the water start to cool on your flushed skin, traveling down your body in hot rivulets, caressing your shoulders and your spine. Your hair clings to the sharp angles of your face and your breath hitches as you feel instead of your own hair, a pair of warm hands cradling your face, and smoothing small thumbs over high cheekbones, telling you all the things you long to hear.

Then the hands are gone and you see the contents of your own stomach splattered across the toilet seat and in the bowl, staring up at you and mocking you for your stupidity. And you cry. You don't care who hears your choked sobs or sees your naked and shuddering form lying halfway on the toilet. You don't care about the bile that's now covering your hair as you rest your head on the seat of the toilet, and you don't have it in you to feel disgusted by it.

Then your brother is breaking down the door. And you are too tired to see as a towel is draped over you and a warm washcloth is passed over your face, cleaning up the disgusting remnants of last night's dinner clinging to your face and the curls of your hair that frame your forehead.

You can hear him talking to you. You try for the life of you to understand his words, but all you know is the warm embrace you fall into, and the strong hands that run the washcloth over your face again. You can feel him drying you off and pulling you to your feet before you're guided out of the bathroom and eased down onto one of the beds.

You keep your eyes closed as your brother dresses you. You don't have it in you to care about your dignity any longer, and even when he is adjusting yourself into clean underwear at an angle so it will be comfortable for you, you can hardly care at all.

You let yourself be manipulated into a clean pair of pants and under the covers. Your brother gently cradles your head in his hands before resting it on two fluffy pillows. And you can't bring yourself to open your eyes and make the whole thing real.

Even as you lay there, silent and still, you can still feel soft hands caressing your chest. You can still feel a warm mouth against yours and the feeling in the depths of your belly that told you it was all so right. You still feel the warmth around you as you claim her as yours. You feel the heat from her body wrapping around your very soul, and you hold onto the memory of when you let yourself forget about the past and move forward, even if it was just for a little while.

But the burning of regret sinks into your chest and you make a noise you're sure you'll be embarrassed about later… but when strong arms wrap around you and hold you close you forget, and you inhale the scent that is purely your brother. You feel the tears come again, only this time, they're not tears of hate or regret, or even sorrow at the lost of a new friend and lover, but they are tears of love. Love and hope that there'll be something better in the future for them. And hope that wherever we go when our lives have ended, there is peace.

You don't care about chick flick moments. You don't care about your destiny. You don't care that you have ended another human's life. You don't care at all now… but you know you will come daybreak. So you just let yourself be held, and breathe.

Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind. 


End file.
